


Midday

by adorababble



Category: Homestuck
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-01-01
Updated: 2012-01-01
Packaged: 2017-10-28 16:29:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,467
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/309795
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/adorababble/pseuds/adorababble
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Kanaya, the matron-in-training of an ancient coven of rainbow drinkers, finds herself compelled to protect the last of her species's mortal enemy. What starts as spite soon turns into forbidden feelings of affection.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Midday

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Yukari (M_Peaches)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/M_Peaches/gifts).



Her guardian could see it, and it was an unspoken agreement among the coven that there was no doubt about what the Auxiliatrix was to become. Though she had not yet molted her shell of youth through the inevitable ravages by time’s claws, she composed herself with all the compact efficiency of a sleek design; the golden spark of a new generation that was nearly enough to convince all who saw her that she would appear as immortal and youthful as the marbled face of a god. Unorthodox and striking as her adornments were, swathed in dusky fabrics and solemnly arrayed cosmetics, she killed with the chopping grace of a typhoon’s wrath distilled into a heart surgery tool.

The Auxiliatrix was as unyielding as tempered steel, and when retribution coursed through her body as though it pulsed in lieu of blood, the ensuing murder was never questioned as fair or unfair. They could have called it trust, but the overall feel was less brazen, less admirable. Very rarely did she kill, but when it got into her mind to water the ground with color, it was a murder beyond trials; Revenge for a wrong that had been as stark as daylight. When she came into the village bearing the scent of gore and soft leather gloves that did not match impeccably with the rest of her ensemble, her rainbow drinker kin would quietly return to their houses and don their mourning regalia. Not out of any regret for the victim, but a respectful tribute to the lady’s decision.

So it was that Kanaya Maryam, Auxiliatrix of the Coven, was considered for the position of Matron. Her sacred duty would be to propagate their species through means by which only a trusted few would be aware, for if prey became predator in great swarms, it would reverse the dominant hunter dichotomy so carefully established throughout the eons of surreptitious control.

The one would could change mortal to rainbow drinker could forge power from thin air, tipping the scales of the ruling houses until all control came crashing down. It took quiet evaluation of a mortal’s worth, skills, and temperament.

In preparation for her new role, she would forever remain chaste and abstain from murky romances that could taint her evaluation of a potential recruit.

At least, that’s how the oath went.

\---

Clutching a leathery string of desiccated corpses as though they were as light as a many-planed kite, Jade Harley crossed the island’s breadth with ease, black hair streaming behind her like a bramble-thatched pennant as she jogged. Her grandfather would be extremely disappointed that she had not resorted to firearms, but if he wasn’t going to teach her teeth-to-teeth combat, then she had to learn on her own volition.

Yes, it was grossly reminiscent of the practices of a rainbow drinker, but no, of course she didn’t care! Fighting was fighting, and when they were the last two of their species to survive on the island, anything goes in a combat, a feral desperation that exceeded the simple bite of a bullet or dignified wrestling with the opponent.

Once she got closer to the shore of the beach, Jade wound up her arm and threw the husks of bodies far into the ocean, where they sank and fizzled. While it was amusing to think that their re-murdered corpses were made of the same stuff as Pop Rocks, she discovered that they tasted absolutely disgusting. The rainbow drinkers she gnawed on during combat were flavored with what seemed to be thousands of years of rancid, fermented blood. It dawned on her that it was, perhaps, the taste of a thousand ancient strains of HIV. Zombie AIDS! Maybe her grandfather had a point with his no-biting rule. . .

Straightening up and dusting off her hunting khakis, Jade stared at the setting sun’s tranquil pinks and golds that rippled across the sky. She pushed up her crooked dusty glasses, wiry black frames circling her solemn green eyes as perfectly round as the moon.

\---

While the Coven argued during the mock-up of supper, Kanaya contemplated her ruby-studded goblet as though it held the sordid secrets of the universe.

Slowly twirling the finely wrought stem between her fingers, she tried to drown out the bickering with sensation. Smooth and thin, not a flaw or bump or crease to ruin the soothing sliding of her thumb tracing its length—

A sudden tug, and empty plates and bowls were sent spinning and spilling off the edge. Someone tried to flip the table and failed, instead yanking on the French silk tablecloth that Kanaya had picked out during their stay about four-hundred years ago. She made a mental note to personally assign the one who tried to “Use The Setting For Dramatic Emphasis” to a suicide mission.

She listened to the rasp of glowing skin rubbing against the silver goblet; The skin that would never tuft in dry unseen powder and settle as dust to coat the halls—

Why did they have to act like brutes? Some were bored of old-fashion courtesy, rules ingrained in ancient civility. Soon enough, the rest would follow suit, but not her, for she had to set an example.

She pressed her fingers against the tiny ruby studs in the goblet to make tiny indents in her skin. While the Coven’s members raged and debated, she got to know the cutlery and dishware more intimately than some lovers knew their partners.

Now that she had drained the cup of its sensations, Kanaya finally broke into the heated conversation.

“I do not see the issue. There is a grandfather and his granddaughter; a decrepit and a fledgling. They remain exiled on their island until the day they perish.”

The one who had yanked the tablecloth off raised an eyebrow contemptuously. His sentiments were etched in his features—My opinions are superior to yours— for he had not yet accepted her as the Matron-in-training. Rumor had it that when she had refused his advances to solicit her as a mate, he took it as a personal affront when she accepted the vow of chastity required for her future position in the Coven.

“Perhaps you may have been fooled by their appearance, but at heart, they’re dogs. A bitch and a mutt roaming the island like savages. They have taken too many of our kind, my cold hearted lass.”

It galled her to be referred to as a possession, but she set her mouth in a grim slash and took it in stride.

“The solution to that is simple. We leave them alone. They will die in the same time it takes for the majority of us to get dressed in the morning.”

He leaned forward on the bare table, resting his pointed chin on his hand. When he spoke, it was as if he was talking to a newly converted.

“I did not want to mention this in polite company, especially to a . . . lady like you, Miss Maryam. You are our beloved virgin, so forgive me to put it bluntly: They. Are. Dogs. Mindless animals when the moon is swelled to the fullest. Surely, we could follow up on your brave solution if they had been two males, or two bitches, but. . .” He left a deliberate pause, his flair for dramatics deepening his condescending tone. “Do I make myself clear, or must I go on?”

His implication was effective as a slap to the face. Though he was one of the most beautiful rainbow drinkers of their Coven, Kanaya had never felt a stronger sense of revulsion churn in her gut, coiling snakes of bile writhing and wishing for nothing else in the world than to lash out and tear him apart. The only thing holding her back were the similarly appalled expressions around the table, though she could not tell whether it was from the scandal of saying such things to her, or the way in which he regarded the werewolves.

“I do believe you have,” replied the Auxiliatrix icily, before leaving her seat without another word.

She went back to her chamber and took up the half-finished tapestry that she had been working on the previous night. Jabbing the needle viciously in and out, she could not stop her hands from shaking with rage and accidentally stabbed her fingers multiple times, a line of spring green thread pulled taut before she realized that it had slipped through flesh. It did not pain her, for the punctures were often concealed beneath the satin slip of gloves, but all the same, she felt troubled.

Within the stroke of an hour past midnight, an envelope was slipped underneath her door. Picking it up and breaking the wax seal that bore the symbol of verdict, the parchment she read held three words:

We slay tonight.


End file.
